There are moments in life when pain seems to have the
loudest voice in the room. There is a particular sound misery
makes when it refuses to be quiet. It is not the sound of weeping,
for weeping exhausts itself, runs dry, and finds sleep at the end of
the night. It is not the sound of despair — despair is a cave, insular
and swallowed.
The sound of misery that speaks loudly is something else
entirely. It is the sound of a wound that has learned a new
language. It is the voice that climbs out of the chest and stands in
the room. Misery demands to be heard. It refuses the polite
company of silence.
The stories and reflections collected in these pages were
not gathered in peace. Each story carries the particular weight of a
truth told at volume. Misery is not the enemy of meaning, it is in
many ways, its loudest messenger.